“This trilogy needs a story about how somebody that was groomed into being evil from childhood can still be a good person! That’s why we need Reylo/Kylo Ren’s redemption!”
Look, I hate complaining and I promise this one is going to be the last for a while, but I need to get this off my chest, especially because I feel like some of my replies have been a little too salty.
I genuinely love writing these stories and I’m not planning to stop. I have a lot of wips, even more ideas, and I know I’d explode if I couldn’t write them out of me. As I said before, writing is my happy place. But posting makes me sad these days.
The notes on my fics dropped, even on Just Like Heaven, which used to be quite popular. My new story got zero comments on AO3. Every time I post a new chapter OR I post something personal, or about my writings, people unfollow me. The only messages I receive are the ones asking about updates or to be added to my taglist. This is extremely discouraging. It’s there, right in my bio that I’m no longer keeping taglists. I’ve also said a thousand times before, literally begged to stop asking about updates because it makes me feel like shit that I still haven’t written that next chapter. And yet, you ignore this and keep asking about it.
Like, okay. Maybe you missed all those posts. Maybe you got too excited and forgot to read my bio. But I can guarantee if you can send a message about these things, it wouldn’t hurt to also say a few nice words about the story you just read from me.
I’m not going to take a break because I did that before, many times actually, and I don’t feel like it helped. If anything, I only lost readers because I don’t post weekly. Sometimes I promise myself I will stop posting, but then I always have a new idea and I get overexcited about it. And I’m kind of grateful for this, that I can keep myself hyped up, but I know not everyone’s like me.
So… I don’t know. Can I just ask you to be a little kinder and more attentive, please? Not just to me, but to every content creator out there. Maybe it’s just one fic for you that you read within an hour, but we work on these stories for days, weeks, months even. Some of us pour our hearts and souls into these fics, write about things we aren’t comfortable talking about in real life. It isn’t just writing down a few words in a word doc. It’s the excitement, the love, the hours of research, the doubt and the lack of self-confidence, the crisis over not finding the perfect phrase, the suffering when English isn’t even your first language and I could tell so many more things that’s behind that one fic you read. Would it be so hard to give a few nice words in exchange? A reblog? A sweet anon or a dm if you’re shy?
I simply cannot believe we’re asking for too much. And if you think we are, that we don’t deserve reblogs and comments for our hard work, then please, for the sake of every writer out there, just stay silent. Don’t leave anon hate, don’t criticize our stories, don’t ask to be tagged and don’t ask about updates.
This is a huge reason I stopped my taglist, and even now havent committed to another. People ask to be tagged and then never interact, and trust me, I noticed.
I find myself spending more and more time away from tumblr because it genuinely is so upsetting to put all my love into stories for people to read for free, to have amassed a rather large following, and people can’t even be bothered to reblog or like.
I don’t write for the notes, id share my stories with my friends regardless, but when I go out of my to put something up, which means writing, editing, formatting, updating a masterlist ect. And for people to just pass it over once they’ve read for whatever reason, it’s so disheartening.
Tumblr is becoming a melancholy place, I receive such little joy from the act of posting, in contrast to how excited I used to be.
I don’t know how much longer writers can sit and ask for people to take us seriously when we say notes are important to morale. If I had more faith in everybody I’d say let’s organise a black out, but we can’t even organise reblogs so idk.
I’m so sorry @marvelcapsicle that you’re feeling this way, and that it’s not the first time for you.
I’ve been saying for ages that this is a serious problem for writers, and it still falls on deaf ears.
It’s really simple: stop telling writers (and yourselves) that we write for ourselves and not for interaction, because there is a difference between a writer writing and a writer posting.
Posting means we want to share. It’s that simple. So if you like something you’ve read, reblog it and (maybe, hopefully, it would be the least you could do) say something positive to the writer.
Trust me, this goes such a long way. Sooner or later writers will just give up, and send stuff directly to their friends who appreciate it, and then where will you be?
There are only two things keeping me happy on here lately. My lovely mutuals/amazing followers who do interact with me consistently, and Henry Cavill content.
It makes me sad to read this post and knowing I am part of the problem. I follow a lot of amazing writers here and sometimes I do leave comments but I often feel stupid if I say the same thing over and over again. Because I find the stories I read amazing, so that’s what I say about them. I’d love to reblog but fics don’t really fit to my main blog, which doesn’t have many followers anyway. If I’d make a side blog for the fics, and no one ever follows that one, the reblog would not make a difference to the writers because they would not get more readers through me. So I’m at a loss about what to do and that’s why I mostly just like a fic when I read it, knowing that the likes don’t really count. 😔
If you feel like reblogging doesn’t fit your blog or won’t help in expanding the audience, that’s ok. But PLEASE comment! It doesn’t matter if all you say is “I love it!” WE love that. We know you’re reading and enjoying. A like could just be that someone bookmarked it for later. We never know if that like ever got read, let alone enjoyed.
So, please don’t feel stupid when commenting. We’ll take whatever you have to say!
During the Cold War, there was a theory: one agent, in the right place, at the right time, with the right skills, could be more effective than an army. The thing about war? I hear it never ends.
How’d you do it? Defeat an Empire with almost nothing? We had each other. That’s how we won.
OSCAR ISAAC as Poe Dameron in Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker dir. J.J. Abrams
Rey strode away, knowing she was being a little unfair. Finn knew what it was like to grow up without a family, to finally find belonging and friends in a place you never expected. He understood her better than anyone.
STAR WARS: THE RISE OF SKYWALKER (EXPANDED EDITION)
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, slight Wanda Maximoff x Reader
Summary: It’s only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn’t anymore.
(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.)
Warnings: Violence, gore, parental loss, grieving, A/B/O dynamics, smut in later chapters.
If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!
A/N: oof. SO sorry for lightly disappearing on this series and Ingenue. as an apology, i will be posting the next chapter of this series tomorrow since it was originally all one chapter and then got way too long! so, two for one! kinda! i had some trouble with this chapter and the next in terms of pacing, but they are finished, pls let me know what you thought! thank you for waiting so patiently!
(keep an eye out for the next chapter of Ingenue at the end of this week!)
***
You ride hard and swift back into town, the landscape a blur of darkness, grey, and whirling. A vortex that you are sucked into. All you can do is cling to the saddle, try to focus on Bucky’s arm that has you pinned to him, that keeps you upright in the saddle.
Your head is throbbing, eyes faraway. You think maybe this is a nightmare, too. You will wake up soon, you try to will it into existence, you will wake up and your father will be alive and downstairs, you beg the universe.
But not this time, this time there is no nightmare to escape from. There is nothing to wake up to.
A choked sob escapes your lips, wobbling, as you realize you’re practically an orphan now. You’re an adult, but all of your kin is dead. Leaving you here, alone and unsure and grasping at their ghosts.
Maybe Bucky is saying something, maybe he’s trying to comfort you, but it all sounds so far away. Garbled and foggy, the thundering of hooves on the ground, the feel of his chest to your back. It all seems so distant, surreal. You keep seeing blood and the angle of your father’s neck, images seared and ruthlessly cut into your mind.
Inconsolable.
Unhinged.
You’re never going to forget this. You will never heal from this, you think.
Bucky jerks his horse to a stop and you try to focus enough to see Natasha on her horse, Wanda clinging to her tightly, burying her face in Natasha’s back but it looks like—
Looks like there’s dark, slick blood on Wanda’s dress. In her hair. Just like your father, like the walls of the home you grew up in. The floors now sticky with it.
You’ll drown in it.
“Someone killed her brother.” Natasha tells Bucky and it is so jarring and sharp that it slaps you back into a certain clarity. Your brain rattles, and you blink hard through it all.
“Pietro?” You say faintly.
“She killed her attacker.” Natasha then says and you look at Wanda, who is covered in blood. She is thick with it. You are not imagining it, you are not imagining the horror of it all, but it is real. A demon come to life, your night terrors that swim before your eyes.
“Rumlow killed her father.” Bucky says, “He's still alive. I don’t think he’s going to stop.”
Natasha curses.
You feel like you’re going to be sick; hearing it aloud makes you gasp and gag a little into the palms of your hands and Bucky’s arm tightens on you. The metal one that is cool and strong and that you cling to.
“Get her out of here.” Natasha then says, “Ride east, we’ll find you. I’m going to find Steve and Sam.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, but turns his horse swiftly and kicks it into another gallop. The wind is hard and cuts against your cheeks, whips through your hair as you hang on with everything you have left. You ride and ride and ride and don’t look back, find yourself slack and lost and your eyes swimming with more tears.
The ride is far longer than you think it will be. Or maybe your sense of time is off, warped and spinning. You wish you could rest, you wish you could shut your eyes and find more than horrors behind them.
“Sleep,” Bucky pleads with you as your cries grow quieter, walking his horse onward and into the dark, “Sleep.” He says because it’s better than being awake right now, it’s better than remembering.
Sleep never comes.
Eventually he slows to a stop and helps you down. You sink onto your knees the moment you hit earth and vomit right there. It all wretches up from inside of you and spills out, burns through you and tears start anew. You gag and sob and dig your nails into the dirt.
You can’t stop seeing all that red. You can’t stop thinking that he is gone forever. You scramble to think of the last good memory you have of your father, you reach to try and see past all the blood and gore and his old, helpless neck sliced and spilling open. You think of his last moments and another sob, another noise so deep and horrible comes up and out of you; an animal noise that wracks through you because you think of him alone and defenseless.
Bucky holds your hair back, rubs your shoulders but it’s all faint and far away. “Let it out,” He might’ve told you or maybe “I’m so sorry.”
When you’ve calmed somewhat, he gives you water. It’s surprisingly cool against your lips, against your chin. Time moves in a strange, uncertain and hazy way. Maybe an hour or three later, Sam, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda arrive. It is still endlessly dark. A long and horrible night.
Wanda falls into your arms, stained darkly in the night. You both cling to each other, try to keep each other up but your knees give out and hers come down moments later. Your fingers dig deeply into her shoulder blades, grasping at her, desperate. Wanda’s little fingers are tight and biting into your sides, along the notches of your ribs.
Natasha approaches with gentleness, and her scent is calming, a balm of lavender and thyme, the spice of bergamont low and soft.
“We have to keep moving,” She murmurs and she does not touch either of you, but waits as you both raise your heads, blink owlishly through tears and blurry eyes. “We’re going to try and stop by a river or lake for the night.”
She doesn’t say it, but you know she means so Wanda and you can rinse any blood from you. Try to clean you of all the misery. Wordlessly, Wanda rises, and she eases you up, too. Gently, she wipes your tears from your cheeks.
You bow your head to press it into her forehead.
More tears slip free, Wanda squeezes your hand, and then she straightens again and turns back to Natasha. She clenches her jaw, holds all her sorrow carefully inside of her and you become suddenly aware at how strong Wanda is. You’ve always known but now, looking at her covered in crimson and with wet cheeks and a set jaw, you realize she is no stranger to tragedy. There is an anger that simmers beneath her skin, that touches her scent and makes it spiced and pungent, almost sour.
Silently, like a bloody phantom, she follows Natasha back to her horse.
You try to steady your breathing and go back to Bucky. He’s uneasy, unsure, but he doesn’t step near you, doesn’t grab at you. He doesn’t pull you in or try to act overprotective. He watches with tenderness, with a sad sort of gentleness.
He doesn’t help you onto his horse, but let’s you do it yourself. Strangely, you’re thankful for the independence, forcing you to be strong, use your legs and thighs and arms to hoist yourself up. Then he gets on, too.
He doesn’t say anything when you let yourself sink into his solid, warm chest, though. You rest there and he rides onward.
At some point, you fall into an unsettled sleep, tuck your chin to your chest and try to rest. You can still faintly hear the sound of hooves on the earth, maybe Steve or Sam speaking up from time to time, guiding you all onward.
“Is she sleeping?” Steve asks at one point when you’re in between sleep and waking.
“Yeah,” Bucky answers quietly, “Thankfully.”
There is a long pause.
“Steve,” Bucky says and his voice is strained, like maybe he’ll cry. “I- It was horrible.”
Another long pause where maybe you drift off into a deeper sleep. Your eyes are so heavy, so swollen from crying that you couldn’t fully wake if you tried.
You don’t hear it, but Steve says, “We’re gonna look out for them now, Buck.” And he’s got a real sorrowful note in his voice, like he’s hurting for you, too.
After another three hours of riding, Bucky finally urges you awake slowly, regretfully. He knows now you may have a harder time sleeping. You rise, blink sluggishly, allow everything to come back to you slowly. It makes your ribs ache.
This time, Bucky helps you down, tries to steady you with gentle, careful hands.
He looks as if he wants to say something, stares at you in the darkness. Maybe you should thank him for saving you. Maybe he wants to reach out and touch you, like he might just pull you into his chest again.
But there are no words for grief like this. He knows this, too. He knows what it’s like to be told empty, hollow words when you’re hurting this badly. He doesn’t say anything and he lets you turn away from him.
You go back to Wanda. Natasha leads you to a lake that laps quietly on the sandy, smooth shore. The moon over the water makes it shimmer silver, glitter white in the darkness. You wish you could love it more, wish you could appreciate the sweet moonshine and the push, pull of the steady water.
“I’ll turn around and keep watch, give you both time.” Natasha then offers and you’re glad for the privacy; though a woman, Natasha is still an Alpha, and to be seen so bare by one makes you feel unsettled. You shouldn’t care now of all times, but a semblance of normalcy soothes you in the smallest way.
“I’ll place clean clothes on the bank here,” She then adds, and you’d been in such a dazed state that you hadn’t even noticed she’d grabbed them before bringing you both to the lake.
“I know it’s not much, but it’s all we had. When we make it to the next town, we’ll get you both more.” Natasha says, “Besides, it might help—“ she abruptly stops, rethinking her words.
But Wanda finishes her thought with a bitter voice, “Disguise our scents?”
Natasha nods solemnly in the darkness, and Wanda turns away from her and towards the open, rolling water.
True to her word, Natasha shifts away from you both, away from the lake, and looks out.
Steve, Sam, and Bucky are setting up camp for the night a little ways away. You try to take comfort in the sounds of the night, the insects and the frogs around the lake that croak and hum. The lake is gentle and steady, reminding you to breathe.
Wanda undresses first, throws her bloody dress on the ground unceremoniously. Blank faced, she wades into the cold water. You follow, undressing slower than she had, trying not to think about how the blood on the hem is your father’s. You take in a shuddering breath, try to keep all your hurt at bay. You let the water distract you, let your feet sink into the sand. The water is frigid, makes your skin pebble with goosebumps, makes you suck in fresh air between your clenched teeth. It effectively clears your head, and allows you to wade out further to Wanda. She stands with water kissing her waist, the moon’s light cutting across her features. She looks up at the sky and sea of stars.
“I killed him quickly.” Wanda says suddenly. She looks angelic in the silver light, her pale skin luminous, but there is a glint to her eyes that is a little unhinged, burning too bright. You think that this is how angel’s would’ve looked, anyways, with barbed wire halos and blood on their skin. Warriors of heaven, with their teeth bared and crackling energy.
“I wish he would’ve suffered more.” Wanda says with a strange, distant expression.
“I wish I would’ve killed Rumlow.” You say, but you aren’t sure if you mean it or not.
As if she can sense it, she vows, “One of us will.” And then she walks further out into the water, the blood fanning out around her like a crimson aura, a blackened shadow in the dark.
You tip your heads back in the water as if you’re being baptized, and come out of the water new and raw and shuddering as if you’re on the teetering edge of becoming.
***
You don’t sleep for the rest of the night. Bucky is awake keeping watch, sharpening a knife, cleaning his guns.
The clean shirt Natasha had given you is Bucky’s. You can tell because there’s pine and gun smoke on the collar of it, rather than Steve’s cotton and cedar wood, nor Sam’s honey warm and smoky scent. The trousers are Natasha’s. She’d braided your wet hair after you’d gotten out of the lake.
You shift to sit beside Bucky. It’s still dark, but the sliver of the sun rises on the sloping horizon. He is silent as he sets his weapons aside, as he looks up at the opening sky.
“I’m sorry,” He finally says and you can tell he means it with all that he has.
You exhale hard, feeling the sudden burn and tightness of your throat. Looking at him is difficult because you feel painfully close to him at the same time that you feel miles away. Your heart aches for everything; for your father, for yourself, because Bucky saved you, dragged you away kicking and screaming. Because he’s been so horribly kind to you. You ache because you’re being thrown into a cruel and callous world very sharply, because you feel suddenly young and lost and with no mother or father to guide you. The past is too pressing, there’s too many ghosts now that linger in your heart. They won’t rest tonight.
You inhale slowly and try to keep your tears at bay.
You flounder for what to say, there’s too much, so many words that come to mind and dissipate just as quickly. You open your mouth, close it, try again, and what ends up coming out on a broken cry is;
“I didn’t get to bury him.”
Bucky looks at you with shining eyes, “Oh, honey,” He chokes out with a rough voice, breaks finally, and he does reach for you now. He pulls you into his chest with a strong arm, winds his arm around your back and shoulders. You willingly fall into him the same way that you used to fall as a child; heavily and with too much trust.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders and arm, burrow hard into the thick cords of his muscles. He holds you fierce to him, as if he’s trying to keep you from unraveling between his hands.
You try to swallow your sobs but your body trembles with their force. Your cries are muffled into Bucky’s chest, as you try to dig your forehead into him, as if you could press hard enough and maybe the whole world except his heartbeat will fall away.
A broken sob escapes you, muffled into his chest.
“I know,” He says quietly, his voice thick and choked. He rocks you slow, almost cradles you to him. He holds you so tightly that you think he may be trying to leach the heartache from you and take it on himself, as if he could crush you in enough affection and care that it might make you whole again. It’s grounding, his scent is soothing, you sink into him the way your heart has sunken into the depths of you.
He holds you like that until you quiet, until the sun breaks through the endless dark and you are able to stand on your own two feet again.
***
A sense of security creeps over the group in the coming days, in the few short weeks you all travel onward to the next town. But your hackles are raised, shoulders always tensed, your eyes always gleaming in the same way a fox’s might. Both predator, with its sharp toothed smile, and prey with the fur of its back standing up.
You dream of storms brewing, the calm before it, the way the pressure builds in the air. No one dares to say it, but they suspect Rumlow may have given up his search for you. Perhaps you were too much work, perhaps he wised up and stopped.
But you know, in some cavernous part of you, that it isn’t over. Wanda feels it, too, deeply unsettled and staring hard into the distance like she might be able to see the danger before it arrives this time.
You lie awake at night beside Wanda, listen to the Alphas talk.
“He might’ve given up on her,” Sam says quietly, hopefully. The fire crackles softly. You pretend to sleep under a flood of stars and sky and open wilderness. It brings comfort to your stirring heart. You hold your breath at the mention of Rumlow, though.
“I don’t think so,” Bucky says after a moment of silence, his voice is as rough as the side of jagged mountains. “She can feel it, too. So can Wanda. It’s all unfinished.”
“Buck, they’re both gonna be on edge for awhile after all of that,“ Steve starts to say, “She’s not going to be the same after this—“
“I know,” Bucky grits out, and there’s a protective warning in his tone, a threat to not speak further on you. It’s almost a growl, a tone you have never heard him take, especially not with Steve, with his pack.
Alphas, though sometimes territorial, are fiercely loyal. Once a pack is developed, it is not about rank and territory, rather about protection and care. You’ve never heard this pack quarrel, nor try to pull rank or growl at each other. Perhaps in jest, but the tone that Bucky had just used almost startles you.
“Omegas can sense these things.” Bucky continues after the tense moment of silence, “The same way their bodies know the seasons, or how they know when it’s going to rain.”
He’s right. Omegas are attuned to nature in a way that Alpha’s are not; they’re more observant, more sensitive to the world whether they realize it or not. There are old rumors of Omegas sensing danger hours before it happens or even stranger stories of clairvoyant Omegas.
“An Omega’s intuition is like no other.” Natasha adds quietly, contemplatively. All old tales that perhaps hold a little meaning.
You lie awake and think about all that dread welling up inside you, ready to burst. You know it will not be this easy for much longer. A storm brews, the air is charging.
You feel haunted in some way, as if the past isn’t finished with you yet.
Your dreams do not relent that night, or for many nights to follow.
***
You’ve been growing restless, antsy to run around. You miss your freedom, you miss the farm, you miss all the places that you and Wanda would uncover. You miss normalcy, you miss your bed and the mountain tops you could see from your porch. Now the landscape is ever changing, new and troublesome and long. You miss the days when you felt young and light and bubbling with curiosity.
Bucky hovers by you, as if he can sense the rising danger, too. He’s become your shadow, dogging your steps.
His presence is soothing in some ways; you know he would do anything to protect you, but in other ways you aren’t ready to soften. You feel like fighting and screaming and shouting. His watchful eyes are both a comfort and a source of agitation.
There’s a tension between the two of you, a string slowly pulling taut. When you travel on horseback, you lean back into his comfort, but refuse his help and shake off his tender hands or gentleness.
Bucky takes you out hunting during the afternoon; he’s the best shot of the group (maybe besides Natasha), and he knows that you like to wander deeper into the woods and wildlife. You like to focus all of your restless energy into tasks, into keen observation and hunting.
You savor the cool shadow of treetop, the way they create patterns of light on the forest floor. You wade through the underbrush and fauna quietly, one of Bucky’s guns warm in your palm. He walks behind you, his footsteps heavier on the earth.
A twig or two snap beneath his boot, the brush of grass too loud. You know everything will be startled off if this keeps up.
“You’re too loud,” You tell him through your teeth, turning to face him.
His eyebrows shoot up, surprised, before settling into a furrow. “I am not.”
“You are,” You protest, “You’re going to scare everything off.”
He looks offended, “I’ve hunted like this for years.”
“And I’m sure it’s taken you too long each time.” You snipe back.
He stops in his place, narrowing his eyes at you, “Well if you’re such an expert,” He says, crossing his large arms over his chest. “I’ll let you do it all.”
You stop now, too, gaze back hard at him. It’s just shy of a glare. “Fine,” You say, and stomp back over to him, “But I’ll need more bullets.”
He goes to reach for them in his belt, but you’re already there, in front of him, too close. His scent becomes darker, muskier, especially as you tip your face up to meet his eyes defiantly. A flush crawls over your cheeks, much to your irritation.
Your hands, nimble and quick, find where they’re snugly tucked away on his belt. You’re quick to pluck bullets from the pouch, place them into your waiting palm.
Reflexively, Bucky’s hands come up a little, gun still in one, surprised with your forwardness. “Easy,” He teases a little and you hate how low and welcoming his voice is. How much it affects you.
“Just stay put.” You say back, a bite to your tone.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky responds and you hate the little smile on his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. You hate that his happiness makes you unfurl, that you have to bite back a smile, too.
Regardless, you step away from him and off into the woods. You wander deeper, quietly, careful to keep your breathing slow and your steps cautious. You think of what your father taught you; think like prey, walk like prey. The memory that resurfaces of him, in the woods out back with you, young and excited to help him, is one that sends an ache through you. It hurts to think of in equal measures that you are happy to have the memory, hold it dear to you. The pain of his loss does not cripple you anymore; it’s still there, but healing. And you know he wouldn’t have wanted it to. No, the memory of him is slowly becoming fond and painted in the gold of childhood.
Like now, in the forests with the tall, safe trees and warm light of summer slipping through the cracks. The sound of songbirds, fluttering wildly, happily in the trees. You miss your father, but there are reasons to be happy still, there are reasons to run and shout and sing.
Your father tells you so in dreams of hazy violet and warm rosewood. He does not want you to weep for him and it’s hard, it’s so damn hard, but you will push forward.
You focus on the gentle wind, the swaying of the trees in the breeze, the way the grass sounds beneath your quiet feet. You focus on your beating heart, the steady brag of it, the warmth of Bucky’s eyes on you.
You glance back at him, see that he’s still standing where you left him, arms across his chest, watching you fondly. Your heart flutters without your consent and you wish you could shush it, soothe it.
He drives you wild, whether you like it or not.
You push onward, focusing on the task at hand, at proving him that you’re right. You move deeper into the woods, your eyes trained on the lines of trees in front of you. You wait for movement. Time slips away a little, the world narrowing down until you catch a flash.
Your reflexes are quick and the gunshot rings out through the forest, sending birds scattering into the air, out of branches and into the sky. It takes one more shot, quick, and sharp for you to take down the rabbit.
You turn back in the direction you left Bucky and for a moment, you think you’ve lost him, before he comes jogging through the forest to you from where you left him. Before he can fully catch up to you, you begin walking over to the rabbit and he follows after.
You stand now before it, Bucky coming to your side.
Then you look at him, a smug smirk twisting your features. “I told you,” You say and Bucky shakes his head a little. A strand of his dark hair slips from the bun it’d been in. You try not to think of brushing it from his face.
“It’s a clean shot,” You then say, almost arrogantly.
“Yeah, it’s a clean shot.” Bucky agrees and he can’t hold back his slight smile. “Alright, killer,” He then says and tousles your hair, “I’ll follow your lead from now on.”
You bat his hands off of you but you return his smile, lighter than you’ve felt in a long time. Bucky seems to see it, too, marvels a little at your strength and the brightness of you. How ferociously you shine despite everything.
“I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said to me,” You tell him and he laughs, hearty and open, which echoes around the caverns of your chest and fills you to the brim.
***
You start bickering with Bucky, too, over small, ridiculous things. Which way is better to cook over an open fire, if the sky is richly blue or plum purple, if the mornings are better or the evenings. Your squabbling turns physical; stealing bandanas and guns and food from the other. It’s playful sometimes, with the two of you pestering each other with amusement. Sometimes you chase each other round a campfire in the evening, in the forests during the afternoon, splash through a pond while the sun is high and hot. Other times, they’re heated little exchanges, getting too close, breathless with your irritation and him, only to repel apart like magnets that have too much force between them.
Sometimes you fight over big things, too. He doesn’t like leaving you alone, he doesn’t like letting you wander into the forests alone, splash through the creeks and hop from stone to stone. He says it’s because, at the end of the day, none of you know where Rumlow is. You don’t know if he’s given up or if he’s far nearer than any of you think.
“What if he were to ambush you?” Bucky asks you and there’s almost a wild look to him.
“I’d have one of your guns, wouldn’t I?” You shoot back and maybe the sun cuts across your face in a way that makes your eyes flash.
“Well, yes, but what if he’s got more men?” Bucky counters, “What if you’re outnumbered? And he’s just waiting until you’re all alone?”
“What am I supposed to do, sit under your arm like some broken--” You start to seethe.
“I didn’t say that,” Bucky interrupts you sharply, his tone veering into the command of an Alpha. The fact that he even tries to take that tone with you makes your lips curl up into a snarl.
“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?” You hiss back, fierce, stepping up to him. You’ve never cowered in the face of an Alpha, not even when they take this tone with you, expecting your submission, and you don’t with him, either. “You want me to follow you around like some helpless creature!”
“I don’t,” Bucky says and his voice is low, “I’ve never wanted that.” His eyes are fever bright and you realize how near you are to each other, feeling the sweep of heat that spins through your body. A storm brews inside of you, you can feel the pressure of it. It’ll expand soon, you think, and you’re scared for when it does.
“I’ve only ever wanted your safety.” Bucky says and his tone is gentler now, coaxing, like he’s trying to ease you into surrendering. You bunch your shoulders, tense them up as if it’ll make you bigger, harder to fight. You hate this tone right now, too, you hate that his voice does have an effect on you. Some most inner, base part of you feels like snarling or lying down, belly up and vulnerable for him--
“I can take care of myself.” You say instead, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the wash of feelings, and turn from him sharply. You walk towards the line of trees that marks the forest. You crave solace.
You are aware of the eyes on you from the small camp that the group has set up, you think you hear Natasha say quietly, “Don’t get involved with them, Steve,” And then, “They need to have it out.”
You hear Bucky follow you, the drag of his feet against the grass. You whirl on him and he stops dead in his tracks at the suddenness.
“Do not follow me.” You growl and it’s a true sound, from deep within you, as if you’d suddenly grown the sharp teeth of a wolf.
You think a worse Alpha would’ve forced you down, would’ve snarled something back, dragged you back to camp kicking and screaming. You think a worse man would hate your temper and your independence, you think that you are too brave, like your father said.
But Bucky stares at you hard, some unreadable expression upon his face. His jaw ticks, the muscle clenching, you think with anger, but his scent becomes sharp with cold fear. He is scared for you.
He does not follow you, though, because you told him not to.
Later, when you return to camp before the sun has set, you go straight into Wanda’s arms. You let her hold you against her body by the fireplace as the Alpha’s cook dinner over the leaping flames. She strokes your hair slowly, carefully weaves her fingers through it, working against your scalp slowly. You grow soothed in her arms, in the warm rose scent of her neck. She smells like home, like childhood and youth and love.
You don’t say a word to Bucky. You go to sleep beside Wanda, the pair of you always in the middle, surrounded by a group of Alphas, protected, safe, precious.
She lets you burrow into her body, her small fingers roaming over the planes of your soft back. You arch into her like a cat.
“You’re testing each other,” Wanda says quietly, just before you’re about to sleep.
“Hm?” You mumble into her throat.
“You’re pushing each other’s boundaries.” She says again and you know that she means you and Bucky. You tense. “You know why, don’t you?” She asks you quietly.
You shake your head against her neck, nuzzle deeper into her as if you could hide from her answer. She is quiet for a long moment and you hope that perhaps she will drop the conversation entirely.
But then, against your temple, she murmurs,“You’re growing warmer by the day.” And she drags her knuckles over your shoulder blades, “You know what’s coming, don’t you?”
A storm, you want to say, dizzying and horrifying. Something horrible.
You don’t speak, though, and she keeps trying to soothe you, and you fall asleep with your heart pattering against hers.
You dream of running from something, crashing through the woods with flowers wound tightly in your hair, petals falling loose and thorns being torn against your skin. You dream of heat in your stomach, too low, twisting and snaking and making you tremble.
You dream of coyotes baying, the sound of ripping flesh, a pack of animals hot on your heels. You wake with sudden gasps, so hot that you’re fearful for a moment that, that--
You don’t dare say it, because you don’t know what it means, then. You don’t dare say it because it terrifies you. You don’t dare say it in hopes of never having it.
So you burrow down back against Wanda, cling to her form and fall back into restless, violent sleep.
hey guys! I’m going to scream ya girl just reached 5k!! Ahhhh thank you so much for following, it means the world to me 🥺 I’ve made this little dialogue prompt challenge to celebrate! You can write for any fandom, any length, any character, go crazy go stupid! Make sure to @ me and tag it with #venusbarnes5k !! 💖
“You didn’t ‘mean’ to kill him?!”
“This is _____. They’re my, uh… my… mine.”
“I know you equate shopping with therapy but I really don’t think $788.23 worth of anything is helping anyone.”
“I never loved myself. But God, I loved you.”
“My blood is literally just highlighting fluid, Monster, and flashcards at this point.”
“What, you didn’t miss me? I’m hurt.”
“Of course this is normal. Friends fuck all the time.”
“Tell me who did this to you.”
“Y’know, you keep saying this is wrong, but every time without fail we end up like this.”
“It scares the shit out of me. I’ve never… nobody’s ever… cared like you do.”
“Stop looking at yourself in the mirror and shoot!”
“You owe me a stack of pancakes and a new car, doofus.”
“When did we decide to use my apartment as our new headquarters?”
“I just… I really thought you loved me, for a while.”
“You look good like this. In the sun.”
“I hope you didn’t drink all these Red Bulls.”
“You like it when I speak French. Or was it Italian? Japanese?”
“They call me deadly, but I’m not. I’ve never hurt you, have I?”
“You can’t try and kill me one day and kiss me the next!”
“I’ve lost everything. I refuse to lose you too.”
“That face doesn’t work on me, honey.”
“The next step in our relationship is tough. It takes a lot of responsibility, and learning, and maturing, but I think we’re ready… What plant should we get?”
“With the way you’re begging, you’d think your life wasn’t on the line.”
“I’m gonna fall asleep here, and there’s nothing you can do except be a good pillow.”
“They’re not trash. They’re designer, you pleb.”
“Maybe if you say it enough times, baby, you’ll start believing it.”
“First of all, if we had a baby it would beat your baby a hundred times over.”
“Take another step. I dare you.”
“What are you gonna do, huh? Press me against the wall? C’mon, this isn’t a soap opera.”
Summary: The sky behind him is sherbert orange, melted dreamsicle, and the tang of lemon as the sun glides lazily beneath the horizon of Brooklyn. Blue moon, soft and overarching, begins to bloom in the sky as you keep kissing him on your front step.
Snapshots of your life growing up alongside Bucky Barnes in the 1930s and 40s.
Warnings: Light violence (like a fist fight), light smut towards the end, angst.
If you are under 18 you should not be reading this!
A/N: hello everyone!! this is for @cametobuyplums 2k writing challenge!! congrats!! i adore your writing!! and for this, my prompt was “barba à papa” which means cotton candy in French! i believe i’m put down on her post as my main blog @maria-beee but i post all my fics to this side blog! i had a lot of fun with this even though it became a little angstier than intended! please let me know what you think! thanks for reading :)
Read on Ao3
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You’re five when you tear your favorite, cotton candy pink dress on your walk home from school, skidding your knees until dark blood blooms on the edges of the pink fabric like flowers opening against a rosy sky. You start crying, big, hiccuping tears because you know your mama will be real angry about the tear. Your knees hurt, too, and there are pebbles in the palms of your small hands. But it’s your favorite dress and you know you probably won’t get another.
Bucky’s there, though, the neighbor boy who’s two years older than you and walks you to and from the schoolhouse with his friend, Stevie. He’s only seven, but he’s got three younger sisters so he knows exactly how to ease you back up onto your wobbling feet. “You’re okay!” He quickly starts to say, “It’s okay, it’s just a scratch!” And he tries to smooth out your dress, brush off your little palms. Small, clumsy hands push your hair away from your tear-damp cheeks, the way he sees his own mom do with his baby sisters when they take a fall. Your nose is running, making it hard to breathe.
→ (remember me, love,) when i’m reborn ♦ | series: It feels too heavy to be coincidence, so weighted that it could be fate. You were crafted in the depths of HYDRA, another soldier to serve their purpose. In a series of events that unravel, you vow to destroy your creator and forever disappear with the only one that has ever mattered to you. But when you meet his best friend, you are forced to realize that you hold far, more secrets than you ever intended. (This will follow the events of Winter Soldier and Civil War). Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader. NSFW. 18+ only!
→ Ingénue ♦ | series: You take a job as a showgirl in an illegal speakeasy owned by two of the most notorious mobsters of New York City in 1921. Caught up in the glamor and mystique, you go spiraling into a world a little more dangerous than you had originally thought. 1920s AU. Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, in later chapters Sam Wilson x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Reader. NSFW 18+ only!
→ creature-song ♦: You should turn away. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready.
1600s America AU, Witch!AU, Possesed!Bucky, Gothic, Horror. Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader. NSFW 18+ only!
○ Bucky Barnes:
→ Into the Hush ♦ | series: It’s only ever been you and the rugged wilderness; both unkempt and undomesticated. Until it isn’t anymore.
(1870s Cowboy AU. A/B/O AU. Gothic/horror.) Bucky Barnes x Reader, light Wanda Maximoff x Reader. NSFW 18+ only!
→ barba à papa ♦: The sky behind him is sherbert orange, melted dreamsicle, and the tang of lemon as the sun glides lazily beneath the horizon of Brooklyn. Blue moon, soft and overarching, begins to bloom in the sky as you keep kissing him on your front step.
Snapshots of your life growing up alongside Bucky Barnes in the 1930s and 40s. Bucky Barnes x Reader. NSFW. 18+ only!
○ Carol Danvers:
→ fire meet gasoline ♦: You kiss her, twine yourself around her as the cosmos of magenta and blue, of burning stars and planets and moons hang around you. The universe turns on, and it’s just you two against the entirety of the galaxy. (Snapshots of the way in which you and Carol went from despising each other to falling in love). Carol Danvers x Reader. NSFW. 18+ only!
○ Sam Wilson:
→ kind eyes ♦: You remember him with warmth, like he had swallowed a star and you were lucky enough to wish upon him. In his half form; when he looks mortal and dark skinned and gleaming, with his beautiful, feathered brown and glory gold wings. Always with a brilliant smile, with eyes so dark and shining.
Samuel. To you, only Sam.
(Angel!Sam and Demon/Fallen Angel!Reader AU) Sam Wilson x Reader. NSFW. 18+ only!
I’m going to take a moment to gush about @until-we-fall-in-love
She is fantastic. She weaves emotion and plot so seamlessly, I always feel immersed in the world she creates. I’ve gasped out loud, I’ve teared up, I’ve felt adored and cherished and inspired while reading her works!
Personal favorites: barba-à-papa, Ingénue , and to the one i will always love 🧡 these are all so, so, lovely.
Oh god this thank you is so late I’m so sorry I disappear like this but THANK YOU SO MUCH!!
You always make me 🥰💓💗❤️😍🥰😭🥺😭🥰💗💕😍 and I also can’t tell you enough how much such praise means coming from you, since I admire your writing so much too!!
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